


Humer Me

by herbailiwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Healing, Injury, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-18
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-10 05:04:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For General_Button.</p><p>Alternate Reality where Sherlock breaks his arm and falls for Lestrade's comfort. This is well before <em>A Study in Pink</em>.</p><p>Sherstrade. 2nd-person POV. Rated T for sexual references.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Humer Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [General_Button](https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Button/gifts).



You didn't register falling, but you registered having fallen. You looked about, assessing the situation. Fall from a decent height, not fatal but the landing went wrong and...arms don't do that, do they? No.

The shock comforts you at first, and you brush off Lestrade's worry and the large, intense eyes of one Sargent Donovan and allow them to escort you to the emergency room with an emergency splint made from the scratchy material of Sally's jumper.

"Bit not good," you murmur, and Lestrade shoots you a look of sympathy and Sally calls you nutters with that quiet fondness she doesn't express very often anymore.

The pain worsens as the shock wears off, and it's all wrong, it's very wrong, cause your arm's gone limp from the break in the humerus if you don't position it right. You're going to be dealing with this for a few months at least. 

You don't have much memory of the setting of your arm except the embarrassing cries it wrung from you and when you sit there with your cast you have to depend on gravity for, you roll your eyes. You were so close to having surgery too, which would have been far more interesting than a cast that relies on _gravity_.

Lestrade insists on helping you get settled and you really don't mind, your arm feeling so odd and so out of place. You can move it around, and he can hear it crack a bit and he shakes his head at you and wishes you'd stop, but you're just trying to get it situated and it's not _your_ fault it's sitting wrong.

They had to give you a lot for the pain, but your body didn't exactly take to it, so the night is spent with a lot of vomiting (from about 9 at night to 4 in the morning), which would be embarrassing if Lestrade hadn't seen you vomit before.

You try to watch a few films, but you have too much of a headache to keep your eyes open for long, so you settle for him reading to you about chemical properties and ancient Rome and the current exchange rates for money across the planet. 

He pats your hair once.

You get the brace and sling after a week. You hate physical therapy. You understand why you have to push yourself a bit, but when it gets to that twinging, it's honestly a little scary and you can't help but remember what you can about the way you'd practially brayed as they set your arm in front of Lestrade.

At least if it was anyone, it was him, you decide. Mycroft comes to visit, but he doesn't bother you much, so that's okay. Sally gets you a card, which is rather pleasant of her. You adapt to doing many things just a bit differently: cooking, experiments, writing. It was your right hand, after all.

Bathing is harder. You have to use the sink. You favor your arm, but try not to favor it too much, but you've also secretly never liked pain, at least not when it wasn't your choice.

It's hard to wash your hair. Lestrade finally notices you scratching at the back of your head with utter displeasure and says, "Can you shower in that brace?"

"Not supposed to," you admit. "So, no." 

He sighs and shakes his head. "I could help you with your hair," he says. You raise an eyebrow.

"Are you sure?"

"'Course I'm sure. Come to mine after we're done here, and ignore Linda."

"I always ignore Linda," you point out.

"Okay, well, extra ignore her. She's working on her latest project. Scraps all over the kitchen. It's like I'm living with you," he teases, "except at least her hobbies don't explode. Usually."

You just nod. You've tried your best to get your hair all the way through, but it's not been easy.

Lestrade does a good job. You demand he help you with your hair a couple times a week, and you even give Linda a helpful suggestion about cutting upholstery foam. It feels so relaxing to have his fingertips move against your scalp. Once, you nearly fall asleep from it. He's got the magic touch. 

Once, as he's helping towel off your hair, you look up at him, and he's so close. And you do it. You reach for his waist, tugging him closer, and he's so surprised. You put on a shy but alluring expression and say, "Perhaps there's some way I could thank you."

He drops the towel, and then he gapes a bit, then swallows. "Sherlock," he says warningly, looking at the open bathroom door behind you.

You give him a challenging look. Does he honestly expect he could be happy with letting the opportunity to kiss you pass him by? "This is honestly the strongest I've ever felt about being close to anyone," you admit quietly.

He can't help it. He looks at your lips, and he just can't help it. He bridges the gap, and it's good. You melt into it like you'd melted at the feeling of his rough fingers being so gentle with your hair. You reach for him with your good arm, get slightly off balance, and he's holding you, he's bringing you close, and when he finally makes himself pull away, he gasps and he just _looks_ at you like there's never been anything more precious, for all he says you're not a good man but that he has hope.

"I'd almost think you set all this up on purpose," he says in a very naughty tone, voice low and sensual like you've never heard it nor expected to.

"What's your first name again?"

His brow crinkles a little. "Greg. You know that."

"No, didn't know that," you say, knowing you've kept deleting it til now. But, at this point, that'd be ridiculous. "Greg," you murmur, putting gratefulness behind it. Sure, Mycroft is willing to take care of you because he's your older brother, but his caring rubs you the wrong way. Lestrade's, though...Greg's...is an entirely different story, with his gentle touches and his willingness to kiss you when his wife is still in the house.

"This is so wrong," he sighs.

"Is it?" you tease. "Is it really?"

He looks at you shyly. "Well, Linda," he says, gesturing to the open door.

"Of the two of you, you're the least to blame for the state of your marriage," you point out, and tighten your grip on his waist cause you hadn't let go. "You may not be as great a detective as I am," you say, "but I know you've got your uses."

"My 'uses'?" he says, looking annoyed.

"Don't do that," you say, rolling your eyes. "You know how you need me?"

"Yeah." He sighs, stepping close again. "Yeah, I do."

"Sometimes, so do I. Particularly in my one-armed state." You smirk. "I never thought you had anything much to offer me, but you do, don't you? You're comforting. Others have said so, but I never realized before now."

"You are such a git," he says, and leans in to kiss you some more, carding his fingers through the damp curls of your hair. He bites at your lip as he pulls back, staring at you and shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm gonna wake up from this in a few minutes with an erection and I'm gonna curse your name, Sherlock Holmes," he says. "God help me."

"Well, I'll bet you that you won't wake up from this. Would you take that bet?"

Greg takes the bet and loses it, but he doesn't seem to mind.

***

Physical therapy is still hard, when you get to those points where the twinges flare up red hot and cause you to gasp. You heal more and more, though you do still feel a bit of something for the first year or so when a storm comes around, and sometimes it bothers you when you try to find a comfortable position at night.

You can wash your own hair now, but you beg Greg to bathe you from time to time because he's so relaxing. He teases that it's better than drugs any day. You never realized you could be so happy. 

Oh, it isn't perfect. The two of you still fight about cases, and about who left the milk out and about whose turn it is to have the telly, but a good argument keeps life interesting, or so you've always thought.

But being the subject of his attention is so wonderful you wonder why you thought such things beneath you at one time; they aren't. Greg is what you've needed in so many ways.

You still pickpocket him when he's annoying, and he still crosses his arms and says your name in that way you generally like, actually, but you'd never say.

Little things make you think of him now, a thousand little things. The sound of a motorbike, the colors of his favorite teams, the scent of Greg's shampoo (which you both use now), and even your right arm.

Greg helped you heal, so he's a part of you now. You see the slight difference between the curves of your arms, very minute, all because of the break, and it's the biggest reminder of all.


End file.
